


The Beast of Gévaudan

by PsycoticLollipop



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/F, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsycoticLollipop/pseuds/PsycoticLollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aimée didn't inted to find any quest-mates, mainly because she didn't believe she could convince anyone that Marie Antoinette was still alive. She also didn't intend to get Teresa's father killed or made her move continents or find her cute and endearing. Dragging Jett into the whole mess and ending up in New Orleans bothering a teenage psychic wasn't part of the plan either. Summoning a ghost was... at this rate, to be expected. And don't even get her started on the centuries old french monster she had apparently unleashed on North America. Mon Dieu, she should've stayed on her lane. And on France while at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dr. Witchcraft and Revolutions

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know what The Guillotine Girls are, it's a completely made up sub fandom of TRC.  
> If you're Maggie Stiefvater: you didn't say you wouldn't sue me, but... don't sue me. I'm a law student it would look super bad on my curriculum.  
> Credit for a big part of the content to the people in the TGG net <3  
> Shoutout to Anja for betareading it. You're a babe <3

**Madrid, Spain. Carlos III University, conference room 120: Revolutions of the Modern Europe.**

Aimée Bouchard has in sixteen years of her live been in more conference rooms than many college students. There is something about the cracked leather of the seats, the scrabbling on notepads and the resonance of the voices that makes her feel at home in a way her own house never managed to. As the auditorium starts to empty she walks down the central aisle, caressing the seats with the tips of her fingers, in the direction of the atrium; flowery dress flowing around her thighs, tablet ready in her hands and an enormous smile on her face. She has heard so much about Dr. Diego Damasco and his works on European revolutions that even if she gets nothing for her personal investigation out of the whole thing the conference was already worth the trip.

In the front row, a girl with ripped skinny jeans and an exasperated look Aimée has only seen on teenagers during math classes stretches her back with a loud crack and yawns audibly. She returns her phone – into which she has been typing during the entire conference - to her yellow backpack and lazily gets up. For a moment Aimée has half a mind of calling her out on wasting her tuition money sleeping during conferences, but ultimately she decides that that wouldn’t give Dr. Damasco the best impression about her and just ignores the girl while climbing the stairs to the atrium.

“Dr. Damasco?” she calls, trying to keep her accent at bay. For some reason some of the Spaniards she has encountered since leaving the plane find French accent worth of disdain and she’d rather avoid ruining the good impression she has already given the professor. “I’m Aimée Bouchard, we talked on the phone.”

The Dr. immediately leaves his papers on the table and extends his arms towards her. Aimée is just leaning for a hug when he lifts her in the air and presses a kiss to each of her cheeks while letting out a jubilant laugh.

“My dear girl! I’m so happy to finally meet you! You don’t know how truly exhausting it is to teach younglings that only picked History because they thought it’d be an easy degree. I’m so excited!” He lets her on the ground again and Aimée thanks God for being black because she can feel all the blood of her body going straight to her cheeks. “Teresa, cariño! Come meet miss Bouchard! She’s the girl interested in the French Revolution!”

Front row ripped jeans girl sighs again and slowly drags herself up to the atrium. She takes long strides while slouching in a graceful way that suggests that she has rehearsed the whole thing in front of a mirror more than once. Once in front of them, she shakes her long dark hair away from her face and gives her the fakest smile Aimée has ever seen. She's not even trying at all.

"Teresa Damasco. The pleasure is yours."

Aimée opens her mouth and closes it again like a gaping fish while trying to think of a polite answer that doesn’t make her look like loser. The Dr. saves her by laughing at the girl’s words and palming her back.

“Oh, my daughter has a very direct humor, you’ll get her.”

Aimée’s reminded of that quote about the American president that could either control the country or keep his daughter from smoking on the roof and hopes with all her heart that the Dr. keeps a tight leash on the French Revolution. Teresa gives her a sly smile and Aimée feels something in her rise to the call. If this kid thinks she’s so punk and cool she’s going to show her you can’t out-sass a French.

“We can share it.” She answers leaning to leave a pink stains of lipstick on each of her cheeks.

Both Teresa and the Dr. look genuinely confused and even as she prays she’s not overstepping some invisible line, Aimée can’t help but count it as a victory.

“Share what?”

“The pleasure”

She adds a cheeky wink just for the hell of it and the Dr. laughs amazed.

"Oh, I think you two will get along really well. Shall we go for lunch?"

Teresa sends a dirty look her way and Aimée smiles brightly while accepting the Dr.’s arm.

 

* * *

 

 

**Virginia, United States. Jett’s bedroom, Murasaki House.**

Jett feels like they are falling before the dream takes them there. During the last week, it’s the first thing they dream of as they fall asleep. Falling. There is never a precipice or a jump. Just the void as they trash in their sleep and kick everywhere. _Then_ , they open their eyes to the real dream.

This time it’s a girl sitting in a cave. They have seen her before. She is always wearing the same clothes and she is always in the same cave. They close the distance and sit on the wet rock next to the girl. She leans towards them and rests her head on their shoulder with a sad expression. She’s always sad.

“I just wish it didn’t happened here, you know?” her voice is brittle glass and a dead sun shining through clouds: far away, weak, and so desperately sad. “I don’t even wish that she wouldn’t have killed me, it’s just… it’s always wet here. I’m always wet. My hair is frizzy and the ankles of my jeans are wet from when I first entered. They’ve been wet for years." her voice breaks in a whimper and Jett feels their own chest shaking with it. "I wore this blouse because she said she liked it. And now it's going to be blood stained forever."

She starts to get blurry, like every time her emotions are too much, and they start awakening Jett. The girl clings to Jett’s pajama shirt and looks them in the eye.

“She can’t find her. She doesn’t deserve it. She killed me for this, she can’t get it. She can’t. She can’t. She can’t.”

The waves are crashing into the cave and Jett knows what’s about to come. The air is shaking with the girl’s breathing. Her lungs don’t work so the wind breathes for her. She can’t speak so nature will throw a tantrum that no one can ignore.

“You have to promise,” there’s nothing quiet about her anymore. Even though she’s still desperately sad –she is always desperately sad- she is angry too. She’s angry and sad and powerful and terrifying. “You have to promise.” Her half Chinese features turn into an insistent pout as the first wave hits them.

“I promise.”

Jett wakes up alone in their room, chest heaving and heart pumping furiously. They would write it all off as a bad dream if they weren’t completely covered in salt water.  
Looking down on the soaked bed covers they sigh and prepare for a midnight trip to the washing machine again. Their parents were going to start thinking they wet the fucking bed or something. When they get out of the bed and start stripping it, the wind creaks in the window and brings a whisper to their ears. _Find her. You promised._


	2. Shattered girls, like shattered cities, rebuild themselves.

**Virginia, United States. St. Mary Magdalene School for Young Ladies.**

Natalie makes sure her skirt is indecently short before she walks into her philosophy class. It’s a complicated and delicate art that she has been mastering since she reached fourteen years old and discovered the world of kissing boys and stealing their cigarettes. Not so short the principal will notice, short enough that the male teachers will.

She walks the aisle to her sit with a smile and a cadency that makes her hips swing, both perfectly rehearsed in front of her friends among vodka and laughs. She purposefully avoids the teacher’s gaze as she takes her sit and opens her books. It’s not like he’s looking at her eyes, anyway. Only when all the class is settled and waiting for the lesson to begin she reclines against the back of her chair, one arm lazily wrapping around it while the other plays with a pencil, she raises her head and looks him right in the eyes. It takes him by surprise and he averts his gaze as he coughs to try and gain some time. She wins.

“Miss Czerny, if you would be so kind as to come to the board.”

Natalie doesn’t need to take a look at her classmates to know everything’s ready. Because the first thing you learn at an all-girls school is that the world isn’t going to do nothing for you, so you do it for each other. She closes her book before walking to the front of the class just to make a point of it. Once there, Mr. Hudson takes only a moment to compose himself and target her.

“Why don’t you tell us about Pluto’s theory of the Philosopher King?”

She lounges for a moment, changing her weight from one foot to the other as her hair falls over her face –the angle rehearsed a thousand times in front of her phone camera- blonde hair falling over her right eye. When she puts it behind her ear it’s as sweet and delicate as Mr Hudson thinks she is. She lets her left hand find the edge of her skirt and squeezes it in her fist effectively attracting her teacher’s eyes. It’s so easy only because he wants to look. It’s so easy it’s disgusting and it makes her hate him. It revolves her stomach to even think of his hands finally reaching where his eyes have roamed countless times. The sole idea of not having all the power in that exchange makes her shiver in fear. And that’s why she plays; not because she wants to win but because she needs him to loose. That’s where all the fun begins. You’re going to give me everything and get nothing in return.

Natalie lets her shoulder find the blackboard and turns her body slightly towards the class as she pretends to be swallowing hard. On the first row, just in front of the teacher’s desk, Chloe has the studying card up and ready.

“The Philosopher Kings were the hypothetic governors of Pluto’s utopic society, Callipolis.” Bolded black letters against a white background. Easy to read. Impossible to mistake for anything else. It’s not like it matter’s really. Mr Hudson won’t look away from her. “As Pluto saw it, philosophers were lovers of wisdom and knowledge. He created the metaphor of the Ship of State to defend this point, though it was later discovered he based it of a poem written by Alcaeus of Militate.” The words leave her mouth sweet enough to rot someone’s teeth. She makes sure her words are slow enough to guide him as in a trance. She lets them roll of her tongue and fall onto him burying a little more with each. “His idea was to give general primary education to all of society. The less suited for it would leave it then and go cultivate the fields and take care of the cattle.”

The hand on her skirt tightens a little bit more making the fabric run higher. Her right hand finds her way up towards her hair and plays with a loss lock near her neck.

“This would leave only the most intelligent at school. They would then receive two years of physical training and ten years of mathematical education. After that he would repeat the process and the less suited would be directed towards the army. Only the best of the best would proceed to study dialectics and to govern the city. And therefore only the philosophers true lovers of wisdom were suited for the job”

She takes the risk of looking him in the eyes. He doesn’t even notice. She doesn’t need cards anymore. She wins.

“It was such a stupid theory, so completely flawed.” The tone to her words is the same. Same rhythm and cadence and sweetness. When the package is pretty enough no one cares about what’s inside of it. “For a starter it was profoundly ableist and oh, so pretentious. There is no base at all, Pluto wanted to be on top of society and so he created a theory that would lead to that exact conclusion. The whole concept is a lie built upon nothing.” Her right hand leaves her hair to press against her neck. The movement is thought to look like she’s working out a sweat out of nerves but the caress is to delicate to remove any residue at all. “He was just an old rich man trying to give power to other old rich men and making it inaccessible to anyone else. And in order to do that he ignored practical problems like the fact that his precious theory implies that men would enter the army at the age thirty-five. Taking into account the living expectations of the time and that Sparta sent to war young warriors around seventeen years old that had been training all their lives for battle; if it had been done old rich men wouldn’t have had much to rule over because they would have been conquered and crushed.”

She smiles, empty and bright and full of poison. And it’s so wrong she can’t believe that no one points it out. 

“So to keep it short, Pluto was as much of an egocentric piece of shit as you are; but since nowadays every asshole can write their incredibly deep theories about the universe in a blog, hopefully the future generations won’t have to study your bullshit as we did his.”

Letting her hands fall limply at her side would’ve been a good final point but clapping them is ruder and right now she knows she can get away with being as rude as she pleases. Mr Hudson’s gaze snaps back towards her eyes and she feigns ignorance, a slight crease in her brows and tilted head sell the deal. _You imagined everything._ She says without speaking. _Why on earth would I be interested in a middle aged man when I look like a fantasy came to life? You were just daydreaming._

He coughs to clear his throat and sends her to her sit not even daring to take a look as she goes and he calls the next name. As Chloe puts a hand on her knee and squeezes pointedly Natalie turns to smile at her.

“Isn’t victory sweet?” Her friend asks with a wicked smile on place. Natalie thinks it tastes like a too wet mouth and a sore throat, but everything always tastes partially like emptiness to Natalie so she just smiles back. Just as sharp and dead. 

**New Orleans, United States. French Quarter. Marie Laveau's House Of Voodoo.**

Sarah has lost count of how many times she has sighed since she started her shift. Her neck is sweaty and her ponytail doesn’t quite keep her hair from touching it, biology is her most hated subject and, worse of all, it’s too hot to drink coffee.

She doesn’t raise her eyes from her biology textbook even though she has read the same line seven times now. It’s a competition with the heat, with biology, with herself. It’s too quiet for her to concentrate on anything. It’s a shit evening to finish a shit week. The tourists deserted the streets seeking refuge from the heat wave on their hotels leaving behind just a clear sky and ninety three degrees. Everything is humid and hot and silent; empty and waiting. The city sleeps during the midday waiting for the cold of the night to crawl out of the shadows. There’s nothing quite as enchanted as New Orleans as the day breaks and everything resurfaces. The blinds raise, the neon signs come alive, people fill the street and the night air caress it’s inhabitants welcoming them to the party. Sarah can wait for coffee. Night always comes.

The bells that hang by the door ring announcing the entrance of a client and she raises an eyebrow but not her head. If they’re out at 5pm they’re a tourist that hasn’t quite caught up with the city ways yet or will be staying briefly and don’t want to waste a minute; either way, Marie always says to give the tourists a little drama. So Sarah blinks and the slow jazz dies slowly from the laptop in the counter and lets some southern gothic playlist begin. The vocalist’s voice ascends slowly talking about a land that has belonged to the devil since the god fearing men decided to call it theirs. She waits for the violins to rise in a staccato and for the tourists to walk further into the shop. It’s a lot to take in. The blindingly vibrant colors, the jars that line every wall, bells and drapes and a myriad of things hanging from the ceiling. Only when she notices their presence right in front of the counter she straightens her back and closes her book.

The client, however is not looking at her. Long dark hair falls past her shoulders and seem to be kept from her face by a pair of designer sunglasses Sarah couldn’t pay if she didn’t eat in a year. She’s tall enough and thin enough and painfully average. Her clothes look comfortable but they’re not made for walking. Her handbag looks too small for a camera but big enough for a gun. Sarah knows she can feel her gaze on her shoulders and it becomes awfully clear that she’s making her wait on purpose. She knows Sarah made her wait and wants to hold all the power in the conversation. God, Sarah hates magic-fearing whites. 

The girl takes her time examining the shop before turning to her and smiling politedly, as if she had genuinely forgotten about her. The smile is wrong and cold and so obviously fake. Her eyes look dead and impatient at the same time and Sarah can’t think of a worst combination. She’s just a girl in her mid twenties and she’s obviously used to being underestimated; but Sarah is just a girl nearing twenty too. And she knows she’s everything to be scared of.

“Welcome to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. May I assist you in something madam?” the sentence leaves her mouth dripping honey but she doesn’t smile back. She has always thought there is something inherently amoral in smiling towards someone while you’re thinking about how to kill them. 

“My name is Sandra Blake. I have an appointment for a reading for tomorrow evening but due to an… unexpected issue I’ll have to cut my trip short and I was hoping we could do that today.” Sarah is not sure if her voice sounds fake or if she just expects it to do so because everything else about her seems to be. She hums either way and rounds the counter indicating for the girl to follow her towards the back of the shop. The reading table is the only clear surface in the whole shop. Sarah gestures for her to sit and passes her hands over the deep purple fabric to make sure it’s smooth and flat. 

“What kind of reading did you have in mind? Tarot, palmistry, scrying..?” she presses a hand over the back of her chair just for the pleasure of hovering over her. It’s clear she doesn’t like being looked from above but it’s her fault all the same. Sarah wasn’t the one that turned this into a power struggle. 

“What can you do?” 

At that, Sarah lets a smile take over her face. It’s an easy smile that makes her eyes shine dark and unholy. It’s a smile made to terrify and show sharp teeth that hold curses inside her mouth. It’s a smile that says _if you fear God you fear the Devil and you should fear me too._

“See the future it’s what I can do. Pick the way that scares you less.” 

Sandra laughs and shows two rows of perfect white teeth. Sarah has no doubt that her smile has scared people before, but it won’t work with her. After all, it’s just a human smile. Sarah can do _worst._

“Palmistry, then. Let’s get close and personal.” It’s meant to sound inviting and easy, but it’s merely an echo. Those words left her mouth sounding easy and inviting in the past, but they can’t do it now. They bump into something wet and ugly in their way out. 

She takes her time sitting down and getting herself comfortable. Sandra extends her arm, palm up, for her to touch but there’s something ominous about it. There’s no reason to believe so, but Sarah is sure that the moment she touches her the whole world will stop for a moment. Witches learn from day one that there’s a certain fatality to their intuitions. 

She reaches towards Sandra’s extended hand and waits just a moment before touching it. There’s something else in the shop with them. It feels old and delicate and _right_ in all the ways in which her client feels wrong. Sarah can feel it lurking around them, intangible and perpetual. It bristles like an angry cat near Sandra and smooths out like a calming sea near her. It bumps against her skin, insistent and heavy. And Sarah lets it in just as she closes her hands around Sandra’s.

The first noticeable thing is that her hands are cold. Her clients hands are usually warm and slightly sweaty from fear or excitement. So either Sandra has done this enough times to not be excited by it anymore, or she has seen things that make this innocuous in comparison. Sarah doesn’t like either one. She lets her index finger roam from Sandra’s wrist towards her middle fingertip, feeling the blood flow through her pulse point. Her own skin looks dark and healthy against Sandra’s pasty one. Too transparent. As if the sun hasn’t really touched in years. 

She is starting to think that she’s hinting at something when the No Photos sign on the walls fall to the ground and she looks up just to see the clock has stopped. Sandra tries to take her hand back when she hears the crack, but she tightens her grip. An owl stops by the window and hoots loudly, but it isn’t until the mirror breaks that she understands what she has let into.

“She conquered death and you may never, for you’re already death’s slave.” her voice sounds alien and unbelonging. It has a distinctive french drawl and it’s _too soft_ to be hers. It’s the voice of someone that is used to being heard and obeyed. “Death gave you something and you didn’t pay. You owe everything you are and she’ll collect the debt.” She can feel the bone giving in under her pressure as Sandra lets out a scream. The hunger roars in her chest. It’s not just the spirit in the shop. Someone else, somewhere else is roaring for it. Hungering for Sandra’s blood and pain. “The Guillotine Queen will find you. She already knows where you are.” 

The whole shop is trembling when she lets go, and it feels like an earthquake but she knows it’s not. The presence ascends towards the ceiling leaving them both behind. Sandra crawls out of the chair, moving back and pressing her right hand to her chest, face contorted in a mask of pain. 

“That’s the hand you used to stab her. I assure you what you did to her hurt more than what I did to you.” 

“You said you could see the future. You didn’t say…”

“Don’t be stupid. Everyone can see the past.” The chair falls to the ground as she gets up. Everything is so sharp when she opens her mind. So vibrant and alive. She wakes up, as New Orleans does at night, and she becomes the material of dreams and nightmares equally. “And the queen… the queen sees everything.” 

Sandra backtracks to the door and opens it with her good hand without looking away from her eyes. She knows she’s the prey, but she doesn’t quite understand what’s predating her. The bells hanging by the door ring and she runs away from the shop into the empty streets. Sarah waits until the door closes and she raises a hand. The No Photos sign flies back to it’s place, the mirror looks as good as new, the clock ticks again. In the window the owl tilts it’s head and flies away.

As all the omens of death leave the shop, Sarah looks towards the laptop and changes the music back to one of the local jazz stations. The night has creeped up under her nose and the city is shaking the remnants of sleep off. She makes a pot of coffee and goes back to her biology textbook humming along to the radio. On the other side of the street the guy from the tattoo shop waves at her as he opens the parlour. She smiles honestly and waves back. She takes back her sit behind the counter and opens her book. She has two hours before Janette starts her shift and paying attention to anything but her becomes impossible and she plans on using every minute. After all, there’s not such a thing as not understanding when you’re connected to the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for next chapter in which someone is bound to get beheaded and we'll learn exactly how real Jett's dreams can get!


End file.
